


No, incest really isn't my kind of thing

by Cafeinated_Scribbler



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Gen, M/M, No really I mean it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:13:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cafeinated_Scribbler/pseuds/Cafeinated_Scribbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By now we've probably all seen the Martin-Crieff-is-a-Holmes scenario, but what if instead of being related to Sherlock, Martin was related to John?</p>
<p>or in which: the reason John denied being Sherlock's date so vehemently at first was because he looked far too much like his pseudo-brother, Martin. His reasons for denying it later on are complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! So this is my first fanfic for either Sherlock or Cabin Pressure and I have no idea how this story came to be. I messed around with the ages a bit since I have no idea what the official ages of Martin or John are supposed to be. Also, this isn't betaed and I haven't written anything in a long time so it's likely riddled with mistakes; read at your own risk.
> 
> Disclaimer: not mine, obviously

To say that the Watson-Crieff-not-really-but-might-as-well-be-combined household had awkward relationship charts would be a massive understatement. This barely functioning situation had started decades ago when, due to a mistake in housing, Wendy Edwards and Susan Piper accidently walked into the room of James Watson and Robert Crieff on their first day of university. After spending the day together trying to figure who was supposed to be in what room the four became inseparable. In retrospect, perhaps they were too close of friends. In fact, they would be the first to admit what they had may have been unhealthy. What ended up happening was that even though the four eventually paired off into Wendy and Robert Crieff and Susan and James Watson, fights, arguments, and James’s enrollment in the military contributed to much more fluid relationship lines.

 

But it was fine; they were aware and comfortable with their arrangement, even after marriage, and even after the girls got pregnant, multiple times. And so, the Watson family was legally made up of: James, Susan, Harriet (who is likely actually the daughter of Robert and Susan), and John (who is probably their legitimate child), and the Crieff family was made up of: Robert, Wendy, Simon (probably legitimate child), Caitlyn (also probably legitimate), and Martin (whose father is probably James).  Of course, no one knew for sure who fathered what child and although they could have done DNA testing, all four adults agreed that knowing for sure would probably do more harm than good.

 

However, even their best intentions didn’t count for the fact that some things were too obvious to not be noticed. Out of the entire group of friends James was the only blond, while both Susan and Wendy had relatives who were blond or ginger, Robert came from a long line of brunettes. Martin and John were the only fair-haired children of the bunch, the rest were all brunettes.  So when Harriet (who was already calling herself Harry by then) learned in school about biology and how babies were made and born and realized that James was overseas when she was conceived she was devastated. That was the day her lifelong resentment of John began. Martin received similar treatment from his siblings, but for the opposite reason, after all, Martin,with his bright orange curls,was the illegitimate child. And so, the two boys were inevitably drawn to one another. Amidst the growing resentment and rapidly deteriorating relationships between the two families, John and Martin found solace in each other and spent their childhood sharing dreams in the small space between their two houses away from the tension indoors. Martin’s first model airplane was a gift from John, and John’s first patient was Martin.

 

 

 

**_Martin: age 9, John: Age 13_ **

 

“Hold still.”

 

“But it hurts!”

 

“Well infections hurt worse so let me finish.” John said as he concentrated on cleaning the large scrape on Martin’s knee before carefully bandaging it, “There all done.”  

 

“Thanks John, you know, you could be a great doctor someday.” Martin smiled at his friend, who beamed at the words,

 

“You think so?”

 

“Yeah, I do.” John helped Martin off the ground,

 

“Come on; let’s go find some glue to fix your plane.”

 

 

 

**_Martin: age 15, John: age 19_ **

 

“What happened?”

 

“Drunk driver,”

 

“So they’re…dead then?”

               

“Yeah,”

               

“I’m so sorry,”

               

“…”

               

“…”

               

“I called Harry,”

               

“Is she coming over?”

               

“…no, she was drunk, one of her roommates answered.”

               

“Oh god,”

               

“Yeah, I know,”

               

“…So what are you planning to do?”

               

“I’m joining the army; it’s the only way I’ll be able to afford medical school,”

               

“What? John, there has to be another way! Mum and dad would be perfectly happy to loan-” Martin stopped when he saw the look in John’s eyes, it was the same look he had when someone questioned his desire to become a pilot, “…I see. Fine, just, try not to get killed.” John smiled; he knew that Martin would understand.

               

“Just focus on becoming a great pilot, I want to see you in the sky when I come back.”

 

****

****

**_Martin: age 22, John: age 26_ **

               

“Dad just died,”

               

“Fuck, are you alright?”

               

“Yeah, I feel a bit numb though,”

               

“Is there anyth-”

               

“Not from over in Afghanistan, no,”

               

“…I’m so sorry. I wish I could be there for you,”

               

“…I know. It’s just, I don’t know how to feel. I love him, but he never… he always…and leaving me his van…just…argh! I’m sorry; I’m just taking it out on you now.”

               

“No, it’s fine,”

               

“I don’t know what to do; maybe I should just become a mechanic.”

               

“Stop that. Don’t you dare give up.”

               

“But I’ve already failed six times! And dad didn’t leave me any money so I don’t have the funds to try again!”

               

“…Martin, do you remember the box of stuff I left with you for safekeeping?”

               

“Yeah, what about it?”

               

“Well, when mum and dad died, they left some money behind with the house. Most of the money from selling the house went to Harry to get her sober. But I got the rest and left part of it in that box,”

               

“No.”

               

“It should be able to cover your fees,”

               

“John, no, I can’t,”

               

“Yes you can. Martin, you are my brother, in fact, you are the only family I ever felt truly comfortable with. I want you to have it.”

               

“…Thank you, and for the record John, I consider you my brother as well. You have been better to me than Simon and Caitlin ever have been or ever will be. Take Care.”

               

“You too Martin, you too”

 

****

****

**_Martin: age 31 John: age 35_ **

               

“I’ve been made captain!”

               

“Congratulations! How do you feel?”

               

“I don’t know, elated? I feel like I’m in shock. I mean this is what I’ve always dreamed of and I can’t believe it actually happened.”

               

“What airline is it?”

               

“It’s really tiny, just one plane, called MJN and … alsoI’mnotgettingpaid.”

               

“What? Martin how?”

               

“It was the only way I would be captain!”

               

“But Martin how are you going to live?”

               

“I’ve still got Icarus Removals. Don’t lecture me John. I haven’t said anything about how you could be home but are still running around in Afghanistan even though all of your bills have long since been paid. I haven’t questioned your selfish decisions no matter how much it hurts knowing that you’d rather be over there than here. so you don’t get to question mine!”

               

“…You’re right.”

               

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean-”

               

“Yes you did, and you’re right. I’m sorry Martin, for everything. I haven’t been the best brother this past decade have I? Not to you or to Harry.”

               

“No, you’ve been wonderful to me. I’m sorry; I don’t think you’re selfish at all. I couldn’t ask for a better brother.”

               

“I’m sorry too; you have every right to make your own life choices. I know how much you’ve wanted this.”

               

“John… I-”

               

“Oh shit, I’m needed for surgery. Talk to you soon.”

               

“John!-”

               

_Call disconnected_

****

****

**_Martin: age 32, John: age 36_ **

               

_Please God, let me live-_


	2. A Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please Read:
> 
> Here's Chapter 2! Just a warning, this chapter contains suicidal thoughts, ptsd, and deppression. John isn't in a very good place after he comes back to London so there may be triggers in the chapter.
> 
> Also, quite a lot of the dialogue is word-for-word from STIP so I apologize for that since it means the chapter is actually quite short. The next few should be longer though.

_Gunshots crackle through the dry air_

_“Stay with me dammit!”_

_It’s too bright_

_“John come on we’ve got to go!”_

_It’s too hot_

_“Help me carry him back.”_

_It’s too loud_

_“Keep pressure on his leg.”_

_Then pain_

_So much pain_

_“John!”_

 

John shot up from the mattress breaths erratic and loud. As he calmed down he looked around his lifeless bedsit. He was back in London, not in Afghanistan and the throbbing in his leg was only a phantom pain from a nonexistent injury. He lay back down; outside, it was still pitch black, but he knew that he wouldn’t be getting anymore sleep that night. His nightmares were now a constant thing. Every night he relived the moment he got shot, the moment everything he had been died. Now he was a useless invalid with a stubborn limp. He contemplated calling Martin in the morning. He wouldn’t.

 

For once John was grateful his emergency contact was Harry and not Martin. He could take Harry’s attempts to make amends mixed with her vague feelings of superiority (for once her life was less of a mess than his) but he wouldn’t be able to face Martin’s guilt or worry. John knew Martin was on the brink of poverty most of the time and swayed to either side of the line the rest of the time. There was no need to stress Martin further. Of course, John also knew that it would only be a matter of time before Martin found out on his own. A few months without contact and the pilot would undoubtedly call him. John didn’t want to think about what Martin’s reaction to being kept ignorant for so long would be, didn’t want to think about how much of a burden he now was. His eyes wandered to the drawer containing his gun. He thought about the blog post he made yesterday about the serial suicides. Would it be..? No. There was nothing worse than watching a loved one die. Both the war and being a surgeon taught him that. He couldn’t do that to Martin.

 

He got up and went to pull out his laptop glancing at his gun before closing the drawer. He opened up the browser and stared at the blinking cursor in the blank post editing box. This blogging thing didn’t help at all. He knew that Ella, his therapist, wanted him to write about his nightmares even if she didn’t outright state it, but he couldn’t. Instead he wrote boring posts about nothing to complement his now boring life. He absently thought about writing up a nonsensical post of wild depravities just to irritate her but thought better of it. He kept staring at the screen, occasionally typing and then erasing. By the time he gave up he realized it was dawn already. He shut his laptop off. Perhaps a walk would give him something to blog about.

~~~

 

In retrospect a walk may not have been such a great idea.  He had a _limp_. He gritted his teeth and started to make his way out of the park and towards the road where he could catch a cab when he heard someone calling his name.

“John! John Watson!”

John stared. The man seemed familiar…

“Stamford, Mike Stamford, we were at Bart’s together.”

“Yes, sorry, yes Mike, hello.”

“Yeah, I know, I got fat.”

“No, not…”

“I heard you were abroad getting shot at. What happened?”

“Got shot.”

 

 

It was…bittersweet, seeing Mike again. While he was glad his old friend was doing well, John couldn’t help feeling frustrated at his own situation. He clenched his left hand again trying to get rid of the tremor as he attempted to fake normalcy and make small talk. When Mike suggested getting flat share to save money John internally snorted. If a mere conversation with someone was going to be this awkward there was no telling how living with someone would feel. He couldn’t think of anyone who wouldn’t be uncomfortable around him now and said as much to Mike.

“Come on, who’d want me as a flat-mate?”

Mike chuckled knowledgeably; that was interesting,

“What?”

“You’re the second person to say that to me today.”

“Who was the first?”

 

 

When John noticed the man at the counter his jaw almost dropped. His first thought was: _what the hell is Martin doing here?_  It was only when the man opened his mouth to ask Mike for a phone (and since when did Mike know Martin?) that John realized something was off. First, the man had a voice much deeper and richer than Martin’s (although they were similar). Second, his hair was a mop of dark loose curls instead of short ginger waves. John quickly racked his brain trying to remember if Martin ever mentioned coming down to London or changing his appearance. However, the strangest thing was that Martin, if this was Martin, seemed to be completely ignoring him. John felt a jolt of fear; what if Martin had known about him being invalided back and was angry at him for not saying anything? Was that why he was in London, to see for himself? John got a grip over himself, no, this man couldn’t be Martin; Martin would never be that cruel right?

 

 

When Mike couldn’t find his phone John offered his instead, and instead of saying thank you, the man (not Martin, nope can’t be) said,

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John was shocked; the likelihood of this man being Martin was both higher and lower. Martin _knew_ he had been in Afghanistan and wouldn’t need to ask, but a stranger wouldn’t have known he’d been in the Middle East at all.

“Sorry?”

“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan, I’m sorry how did you-?”

Before John could finish his question a shy looking girl in a lab coat and holding a cup of coffee walked in and other man’s attention turned to her as he took the coffee and mentioned something about lipstick and small mouths. John felt sorry for the girl (apparently her name was Molly); she was obviously infatuated. When she left the man addressed John again.

“How do you feel about the violin?”

“Sorry, what?” Martin didn’t play the violin

“I play the violin when I’m thinking; sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flat-mates should know the worst about each other.”

Now John was truly confused “Are you-?” he turned to Mike, “you told him about me?”

“Not a word.” Was the reply

“Then who said anything about flat-mates?”  

“I did, told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flat-mate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend clearly returned from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t a difficult leap.”

“How did you know about Afghanistan?”

“I have my eye on a nice little place in central London together we ought to be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening 7’oclock. Sorry, got to dash, left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

“Is that it?”

 “Is that what?”

“We’ve only just met and we’re going to look at a flat.” At least now John was pretty sure this man wasn’tMartin. Martin had never been able to handle even blood all that well much less dead bodies.

“Problem?”

“We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting. I don’t even know your name.”

The man stared intensely at John. John felt himself caught in the man’s eyes; his scrutiny was piercing and all-encompassing not at all like Martin’s open and nervous gaze. Then the man rambled off a long list of facts that had John reeling and again questioning whether or not it was an elaborate and cruel joke Martin was playing on him. Except, how could he forget Harry was female? The went to the door and added,

“The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon!”

and left with a dramatic wink and swish of his coat. Well, John now knew that it wasn’t Martin, but he still found himself wondering exactly what the hell had just happened.

 

~~~

 

When John gets back to his bedsit, he scrolls through the sent messages and runs an internet search on “Sherlock Holmes.”  In a different tab he opens his blog and begins to type.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: A Study in Pink....a bit differently

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Critiques are welcome!


End file.
